


This is Gospel

by citizen101erased



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bribery, Canon Compliant, Corrupt police, Crime, Detective Story, F/F, Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Post-Canon, corrupt companies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-01-23 19:36:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citizen101erased/pseuds/citizen101erased
Summary: The Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley Detective Agency, For All Your Detective-y Needs. Opening hours vary, please leave a voicemail or leave us a note, preferably handwritten, and wax sealed for privacy law reasons. Or just knock on our door and see if we’re there.Ethereal or occult folk, witchfinders, and humans who own small, yappy dogs need not apply.We do NOT take cases about cheating spouses. Just leave them and live your best life.Or the one where Aziraphale and Crowley try to enjoy their rest after the not-armageddon. But then Aziraphale finally reads a Sherlock Holmes story and figures it would be nice to help people by solving mysteries. Crowley thinks this might be a good chance to have some fun with the criminals they’re going to run into. But when a new client comes knocking, a new case might just prove to be more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 34





	1. Benedictions

**Author's Note:**

> _A benediction (Latin: bene, well + dicere, to speak) is a short invocation for divine help, blessing and guidance._

The story starts, as it will end, in a garden. Not The Garden of Eden, obviously, we’ve already seen that. And besides, it doesn’t exist anymore. No, this garden is connected to a lovely cottage somewhere near Brighton, and—for now—in it are all the usual things you would find in a garden: a hedgehog sleeping under a rosebush, brother and sister slug making their way through the grass, a couple of common finches fluttering around the great apple tree, and an angel and a demon drinking some wine and enjoying the lovely afternoon. 

At least, it was a lovely afternoon, right up until the moment the doorbell rings. The angel called Aziraphale and the demon called Crowley stare at each other. 

“Well, aren’t you going to get that?” Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale frowns. “But I was having such a lovely afternoon!” 

To be fair, he really had been. 

“You really want me to open the door? When it could be someone in need of a detective?” 

Crowley drawls, putting extra emphasis on the word ‘detective’. It works exactly as he planned as Aziraphale’s eyes light up. 

Aziraphale immediately puts his wine glass down and starts straightening his tartan bow tie. 

“How do I look? Do I look like a proper detective?” 

“You look the same as always,” Crowley sighs as he pretends to be annoyed. “Now just go open the door, they’re waiting.”

Aziraphale comes back a few moments later—just after a third chair miraculously materializes—followed by a young woman. 

If you had been, say, a writer in the Romantic era, perhaps stuck in a villa in Switzerland with some of your writer friends with nowhere to go as the rain pours down, you might have described her as a classical beauty. Her loose, curly dark hair framing her fair face and her large, sorrowful eyes that glistened with the potential of tears falling. She is dressed in a long, romantic dress with all manner of frills and flowers (or at least it seemed that way to Crowley, who is at this moment making some mental notes for future reference). Peeking out beneath it are very sturdy and practical-looking black boots. 

“Please, do sit down,” Aziraphale says as he pulls back the extra chair a little bit for the woman and Crowley gets up to get everyone coffee. 

Once they are all seated and sipping away at their drinks, Aziraphale starts. 

“So, what may we help you with? I take it you’re in need of a detective?” 

The woman fidgets, unsure of herself. “Yes, I suppose I am. I’m sorry, this feels very strange still. But I just don’t know where else to go.” 

“It’s alright, dear. Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Aziraphale smiles at her. It’s his special smile meant for reassuring people. Most angels can do some approximation of it, being, after all, angels. But Aziraphale, after millennia of living among humans has it down perfectly. It doesn’t usually work on other angels - or demons, for that matter, being of the same stock. Crowley is an exception, just like he is an exception in almost everything concerning Aziraphale. The word ‘whipped’ comes to mind, but that is a discussion for another day. 

The woman relaxes a little, but doesn’t start until after she glanced at Crowley several times. Crowley just stares back, waiting patiently for her to actually start. Not that she could see that behind his sunglasses. 

“My name is Agatha Spalding. My boyfriend, Jim, is missing. There’s a note at his house saying he found someone else and is running off to marry her, but I’m just so sure he wouldn’t do that. That’s why I’m here. I want to hire you to find him.” 

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other. 

“Miss Spalding,” Aziraphale starts. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong detective shop. You see, we don’t take cases like yours. It’s on our sign. Look.” He pulls a flyer with their advertisement out of his pocket and shows it to Agatha. It reads: 

_ The Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley Detective Agency, For All Your Detective-y Needs. Opening hours vary, please leave a voicemail or leave us a note, preferably handwritten, and wax sealed for privacy law reasons. Or just knock on our door and see if we’re there.  _

_ Ethereal or occult folk, witchfinders, and humans who own small, yappy dogs need not apply.  _

_ We do NOT take cases about cheating spouses. Just leave them and live your best life.  _

“No, but here’s the thing,” Agatha says, mostly ignoring the flyer, much to Aziraphale’s annoyance. “He’s run off to get married to someone else, right? So how come none of his things are missing? All he did was leave a note. His whole house is in order, everything’s where he left it save for the sword that used to be on his wall.” 

Aziraphale and Crowley glance at each other. Crowley just raises an eyebrow. 

“And then there’s also the part where he told me he wanted to go public about something really bad, something really dangerous.” She hunches in on herself, as if she wants to disappear. “Um, I don’t know how safe it is to talk about this in a garden, you never know when or how someone’s listening in.” 

Aziraphale leans in, softly putting his hand on her arm. “You’re absolutely safe here, I assure you. You can speak freely in this garden.” 

Agatha takes a deep breath. 

“Jim is the son of the CEO of a company called Eden. I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, but they give loans to small companies. They have a slogan, ‘We’ll help you get out of Eden and into the world’. Jim knew something about them, he said it was too dangerous for me just yet to know. He wanted to go public, make sure everyone knew all at once, hopefully take the company down. He got very intense about it the last time I saw him.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Five days ago.” 

“And the police?” Crowley adds. 

“They say it’s unfortunate but there’s nothing to be done. My father - he’s the chief constable at the police - says that since Jim seems to have left on his own volition and his family hasn’t filed him as missing, the police can’t do anything.” 

“Hmmm...interesting,” Aziraphale says while rubbing his chin. 

“So, you’ll take up my case then?” Agatha asks, looking both eager for their reply and deflated now she’s told her story. Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who is still staring at Agatha, apparently thinking it over. 

“Well, at the very least we can have a look, see what we find,” Aziraphale says, standing up. 

“What, we’re leaving right now?” Crowley and Agatha ask in unison. 

“Of course!” Aziraphale says, with an expression on his face that Crowley knows as the ‘blatant righteousness only angels and tv-priests have’-expression. “Evil never stops, and neither should we. Let’s go!”

\---

An hour later, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves parking the Bentley in front of a modest house in Brighton, close to the sea. The house is washed white, and surprisingly small. It only just missed out on having a view of the sea on one side and a view over a shopping street on the other side, which its neighbours don’t let it forget. Out of pettiness, this house has made sure it is still the prettiest white and has the best gardens. 

The Bentley’s radio is still blasting Claire de Lune (with guitars by Brian May), while Agatha is still clutching her chest, trying not to throw up after witnessing Crowley’s driving skills firsthand. Aziraphale knows how she feels. 

“This is it, then?” Crowley asks as he finally shuts the music off. Agatha gasps a yes in response. Her face is regaining a little bit of colour, although Aziraphale thinks the greenish colour makes her look a bit gaunt. If they have time later, he might recommend her a skincare line his manicurist recommended to him. 

“And he’s the son of a CEO of a successful company? You’d think he’d live somewhere a bit...bigger.” 

“He never liked all the showing off rich people do,” Agatha says, finally slowly catching her breath. “He says he prefers living in a normal house, that he doesn’t need that much space and he prefers using his money and privilege for a good cause instead.” 

“I like him,” Aziraphale says, smiling, until he sees Agatha’s crestfallen face at the sight of the house. 

“Except, of course, for the running away bit,” he adds sheepishly. 

“Yes, well, you’re too trusting sometimes, angel.” 

“I think I made a good call in trusting you, though. Anyway,” he whips out a magnifying glass seemingly out of nowhere. “Let’s go investigating!” 

Outside, Aziraphale does a quick round through the front yard while Crowley and Agatha wait near the front door.

“Did you see any signs of a possible break-in after he disappeared?” Aziraphale asks while he peers at a bush with his magnifying glass as if it holds all the answers. (It might have some answers, but the person who knows how to get it out of a plant is Crowley. For some reason, plants just never quite take to Aziraphale, no matter how nice he is to them.)

“No,” Agatha shrugs. The outside air - and, more likely, the simple act of not being inside the Bentley while Crowley is driving - is doing her a lot of good. Her skin colour is almost back to normal again. “Everything looked fine to me, which is why I didn’t suspect anything until I saw the note inside.” 

The inside of the house proves to be much like Agatha said. Lived-in but tidy, with everything where it’s supposed to be. There’s a comfortable looking couch against one wall, with a soft sheep wool blanket folded up on one side. The tv on the other side has a thin layer of dust covering it. There are a couple of books and magazines scattered around, though the actual bookshelves in the little nook are mostly filled with little tidbits. Some seashells, family photos, a couple of ornamental statues. 

There’s a dining table with two chairs, a small pile of letters, and a note stuck to the table with a knife. Crowley picks up some of the post, ignoring the note for now to give Aziraphale a chance to look around. They’re mostly bills. Electricity, water, one fine for illegal parking. 

“I’ve been picking up his post,” Agatha says softly, stepping next to Crowley. She glances at Aziraphale, who is standing in the middle of the room with his eyes closed and his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Is he alright?”

“I’m not sure he’s ever alright,” Crowley mutters, glancing at Aziraphale for a moment before moving on to the kitchen and opening random cupboards. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be looking for as he doesn’t actually know what’s normal in a human kitchen. He supposes it seems alright. He’s found cutlery, wine glasses, a couple of bottles of cheap wine, some plates, most of them with cracks in them. The smell that comes from the fridge when he opens it scorches his tongue, so he slams it shut and walks back to the living room. 

Aziraphale has now opened his eyes again and is turning towards Crowley. With the sun coming in behind him through the window, he looks even more golden and angelic than usual. The only thing that’s missing are his wings, and Crowley can feel his own twitch a little at the thought of finally spreading them again. 

“Hey angel, did you see this?” Crowley says, shrugging off the sudden influx of thoughts and memories about wings, flying, and one of the last times both of them spread their wings. Aziraphale had looked so relieved then, cracking his neck as if he’d been tense for a long, long time. 

They really should go flying again soon. 

“Hm?” Aziraphale hummed, eyes flicking over to the note Crowley gestures at. “Ah yes, the note.” 

He takes the knife out and hands it Crowley as he picks up the note and starts reading it out loud. 

_ My dearest friend Agatha (and whomever else may read this letter) _

_ I hope you’re doing well, despite my sudden disappearance. I have to admit I hesitate to tell you the true reason behind my leaving, but I think it’s only fair to give you a full explanation.  _

_ I have met someone else. We are going to be married soon. I’ve decided not to give you her name or any details, both for fear of repercussions and because, in the end, it doesn’t matter. She’s the one I love. We’ve decided to move away, far from here, far from these awful shores and their cold winds, far from my family and far from you and all the history we have here.  _

_ You and I both know our love couldn’t end in anything but misery and grief. We were like Romeo & Juliet, from rivalling families and fated never to be together. We may have been able to fool ourselves while youth lasted, but youth and its freedom never last and soon the responsibilities and expectations of adulthood come demanding time and attention from us all. So I decided to take a different path, one that’s better for us all.  _

_ I know you’re not quite as religious as myself, but I’ve found in times of need the Bible can be of comfort to anyone regardless of their beliefs. So remember: The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble (Psalm 32:7-8).  _

_ I pray that you will be alright, that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and trust that in due time you will find the true love you so deserve. I am genuinely sorry that I am not it.  _

_ Wishing you all the best,  _

_ Jim _

The quiet after Aziraphale finishes reading can’t hide the soft sobs coming from next to them, where Agatha is standing. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well. I think that quite settles it.” 

Agatha raises her head, looking at him. 

“Do you think so?” she asks, her soft voice tinged with hope. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale says. “Usually, I would say men are fickle and you can’t trust them.” 

“And you have experience with that, do you Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, just so he can tease Aziraphale, which has always been one of his favourite things to do. 

“I do, actually,” Aziraphale answers in a flippant tone, although the look in his eyes suggests something else entirely. “You don’t just learn to dance the Gavotte without also learning some other things, you know. But there’s something else going on here.” 

Crowley thinks he doesn’t have time - or the mental capacity - right now to unpack this new information. Instead, he turns the knife around in his hands. “This is a very nice knife. Do you know where he got it? I haven’t seen a knife like this for a long time.” 

Agatha gets up and walks towards them. 

“It’s not his,” she says softly. 

She sits down on the couch, with her head in her hands. Aziraphale sits down next to her, patting her knee softly. 

Suddenly, Crowley freezes Agatha. 

“What did you do that for!” Aziraphale exclaims, standing up. 

“You and I, we need to talk for a moment. This knife, there’s something familiar about it, I just can’t put my finger on what. I take it you’ve already made up your mind about taking this case?” 

“I have, yes. We’re taking it. I’m sensing so much love in this house. Love for Agatha, especially. There’s a picture of the two of them on the bookshelf that I don’t think you can even touch.” 

Crowley frowns. “There really is something dodgy going on. All this love for Agatha, yet he left. This knife, that’s so old and strange. Why would the son of a CEO of a modern company, who lives in a modern house where the only other similar thing is a cheap new sword, have this? I agree, Angel. There’s something strange going on here.” 

“So what you’re saying is…” Aziraphale pauses, his eyes lighting up. Crowley groans. “...we should investigate!” 

He fixes his bowtie before unfreezing Agatha. 

“Miss Spalding, you’re in luck. The game, my good friends, is afoot!” 


	2. Ecclesiastes 4:1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I looked again at all the injustice that goes on in this world. The oppressed were weeping but no one would help them. No one would help them, because their oppressors had power on their side.”_

“Hello, boys,” a distinctly American voice says behind them, just as Aziraphale and Crowley are about to walk back in to the cottage. They turn around to see Anathema standing on the sidewalk. She’s wearing a dark blue summer coat over a dark green dress, and her long, black hair is in her usual half-updo. She’s holding the handle of a small suitcase that’s very, very pink. 

“Anathema!” Aziraphale exclaims before embracing her. “It’s been such a long time! How are you? Please, do come on in! Let me take your suitcase for you. Are you traveling somewhere?” 

Anathema smiles when she sees Crowley already grumbling as usual. She’s pretty sure he only does it to cling to his ‘best demon of the month’ streak of about 500 years, despite being on a hiatus of sorts. He’s really actually a sweetheart - Anathema knows very well it’s Aziraphale you have to look out for.

“Hullo, Anthony,” she says, smiling at him as she passes him to walk into the cottage after Aziraphale. 

“Actually,” she starts as they’re all seated on the miraculously pristine couch with glasses of expensive wine from a bottle that Aziraphale deemed the situation worthy of opening. He’d been looking for an excuse. “I’ve been traveling around a bit, touring the country, taking the occasional trip to the mainland.” 

“Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale beams at her. “Have you been to Paris yet? If you ever want a decent crepe, Paris is the best place to go. I remember-” he cuts off when Crowley pointedly clears his throat. 

“Are you traveling alone?” Crowley asks. 

“Well...yeah.” 

“What happened to that other lovely fellow?,” Aziraphale asks. “What’s his name again? Isaac Newton, or something? Dreadful how that apple hit his head, he lost it a bit at that, didn’t he.” 

“Angel, that was 300 years ago.” 

“Oh, was it? Time does fly by so fast.” 

“Anyway!” Anathema interrupts. “His name was Newt Pulsifer, and um. We broke up. About half a year ago. I haven’t seen him since.” 

“Is he missing? Do you need our assistance? We’ve gotten quite good at this detective thing, you know,” Aziraphale says. 

“No, thank you,” she says, pushing her glasses up. It’s as if the darned things have a mind of their own and that mind much preferred clinging somewhere at the bottom of her nose. “I was wondering actually, if maybe I could stay here for a little while? Catch up with you guys?” 

“Of course you can stay here for a while!” Aziraphale says. “You know you’re welcome to stay for as long as you like. We are rather busy with the current case though, so we’re probably not around much.” 

Anathema sits up a little straighter. “Oh, yes! The detective agency! That’s really exciting! Well, maybe I could help with the case?” She looks at Crowley and Aziraphale excitedly. “I’ve gotten pretty good at solving hints and finding things, you know. All those years of being a professional descendant and deciphering Agnes Nutter’s prophecies definitely gave me some good detective skills.” 

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale exclaims. “You are here on vacation and to see the country, not to solve strange mysteries. No, we’ve got this quite under control, so you just go and enjoy the lovely scenery here. There’s a local shop with absolutely delicious French cheeses that I highly recommend.” 

\--- 

After Crowley had shown her her room in the cottage (she had reason to believe it did not exist prior to her arrival), she had pretended to unpack for approximately 5 minutes before declaring the coast clear and going back downstairs. She’d heard the front door open and close but didn’t hear the Bentley leave, so she hoped it meant Crowley was still at the cottage but without Aziraphale. 

“So,” she starts, pretending to be as casual as she can as she walks back into the living room. She was right; only Crowley is there, standing at the windowsill. Some of the plants are shaking a little bit. 

“What’s the case you’re working on right now?” 

Crowley smirks. “Looking to join us after all then?” 

She smiles her best smile back at him as she sits down on the lazy chair. “Of course. You didn’t think Aziraphale would actually stop me, right?” 

“No, I didn’t think he would. I think it’d be interesting to see what happens when you join us.” 

He saunters back to the couch, and doesn’t sit down as much as slithers down until he slouches on it. “I can’t show you the file Aziraphale is keeping. He’d know the moment someone else touches it. Something about client privacy? I don’t know, I wasn’t listening.” 

He slouches down even further as he explains the case so far. It doesn’t take long for him to finish. Anathema is barely even halfway through the cup of hot chocolate that had materialized in front of her. 

“So, missing boyfriend, girl has no idea what’s going on, mysterious note you can’t show me,” Anathema starts to summarize, counting each point on her fingers. “No stuff missing, knife that isn’t his, and he’s the son of a CEO of an important company?” 

“Yep, sounds about right.” 

“What are your thoughts so far?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Mostly that something weird’s going on. Call it demon senses that are tingling.” 

“And Aziraphale?” 

“Also thinks something weird’s going on, though he’s not sure where to start. Says boyfriends disappear all the time. Nothing new under the sun and alI. Guess he’d know. I did sleep through the 19th century and Aziraphale’s still not telling me what I missed. But apparently there’s something else going on here.” He shrugs, as if that says everything he needs to say. Usually it does - to Aziraphale, at least. 

Anathema almost burns her mouth when she accidentally takes too big a sip. “Wait, you have to sleep?” 

“Nah. I do like it though.” 

“Yeah, I understand that feeling,” she says. 

“Anyway.” She stands up, smoothing her skirt. “Best get to work then. I’ll let you get back to scaring your plants. And,” she adds when she sees Crowley’s raised eyebrow. “I promise I won’t tell Aziraphale you told me about the case.”

\---

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had gone to the Eden offices. 

The offices are close to Arundel castle, in an old building that looks like it’s very well kept. It’s obviously inspired by ancient Greece, with white pillars, a truss roof, and a miscellaneous collection of expensive-looking statues of Greek gods in the garden that appear to be chosen more based on certain anatomical sizes than whether the specific god is appropriate for a business garden. It looks, quite frankly, gaudy. Aziraphale already does not like it. 

“Hello!” the cheery woman at the reception says as he comes in. “Welcome to Eden! How may we help you today?” The small metal name tag pinned to her blouse says her name is Edith.

“Hello!” Aziraphale starts, wringing his hands as if he’s a bit nervous. He’s not actually nervous. He’s an ethereal being that has prevented the apocalypse and literally went through hell and back (while asking for a rubber duck), he can handle a simple investigative interview. 

No, it’s the strong wave of love he just felt. He’s not sure where it came from - it can hardly have come from an office building, as office buildings and the corporations that own them are designed to make everyone in them as miserable as possible. And they’re designed so well, the devil himself is jealous. (Aziraphale happens to know this for a fact - he saw hell and it has nothing on human office environments. After all, hell’s offices have actual attempts at fair trials. And discos. Not to mention the lighting isn’t as harsh and unflattering there.) 

Yet the wave of love was there, he’s sure of it. 

He shrugs it off. He’s close to the castle after all, so something romantic probably just happened there. Happens all the time - humans seem to love picking special places for special occasions. He supposes he’s just not used to it anymore after spending so much time in London. 

“I wonder if you might be able to help me,” he says to Edith, who is looking at him with blank eyes and a meaningless smile. He suspects her soul dies a little every time she sets foot in this building. 

“I’m new to the area, you see, and I have just started a company but it seems I’m lacking some funds. I have heard around town Eden might be able to help me out with that?” He puts on his best, most charming smile, the one that can even make demons weak (or, at least, one specific demon, which might not say that much actually.) 

“Do you have an appointment?” Edith asks, still staring blankly at him with that unnerving smile. 

“No, I do not. Did I need one?” 

“Yes, I’m afraid we can’t help you if you don’t have an appointment.” 

“Ah, I see. Well, can I make an appointment?” 

“You sure can! Is there anyone in particular you would like to speak to?” 

“No, thank you. Just whomever is available today.” 

Her fingers are flying over the keyboard as she stares at the screen. Aziraphale wonders how inefficient this computer is if she has to do so much just to get to a schedule. 

“I’m afraid no one’s available today.” 

“Then tomorrow?” 

“Unfortunately, no. But,” she says, raising Aziraphale’s hope for a split second before she says: “we do have a spot open 3 weeks from now, on a Friday morning, if that suits you?” 

Aziraphale tries really, really hard to suppress the groan that’s trying to climb up from his throat. And then he remembers he can do literal miracles. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing free today?” he says, very sure of himself. Edith sighs, and clicks the mouse a couple of times while clacking her tongue, her long fingernails click-clacking away on the keyboard. She doesn’t notice the man who stops just outside the door and checks his bag as if he suddenly realizes he forgot something Very Important at home before turning around. 

Then she stops, frowning. “Huh, that’s odd.” She turns back to Aziraphale, who is looking very smug. “Apparently someone just canceled, and I can get you in right now.” 

\---

Raphael Isaacson has always been the kind of person who is, for inexplicable reasons that only they themselves know, proud of themselves. He’d always taken pride in his name (he figured it had to mean _ something _ that he was named after one of the archangels, though quite what that was, he didn’t know). He’d also taken pride in his skills. At his previous job, he was employee of the month almost every month. This was mostly because he was so skilled at reaching all his targets and then some, that he set the bar higher every month. His boss loved him for this. His coworkers most assuredly did not. Not that he’d ever noticed. 

Thankfully for Raphael, his stomach, and his coworkers criminal records, he got offered a job at Eden just before they could poison his coffee with laxatives. 

And now here at Eden? He’s a star. Had he been like other people, he might have said he’s never felt more at home, but the truth is, if you think you own the world then everywhere feels at home to you. 

But he does like his coworkers, he likes this company’s core values, he especially likes the boss’s secretary. And he loves the money he’s making. The fact that the way they earn that money is legally dodgy at best doesn’t bother him. Money is money, and he sure does love money. 

Raphael opens the door to the meeting room. He likes this meeting room. It’s very minimalist: white walls, a plain office table with four gray chairs, a picture of green apples in a white frame on one of the walls. The windows are hidden behind white semi-transparent blinds that are completely closed. There is one plant in the corner, that gets a regular dose of coffee with milk because Edith can never quite remember that Raphael drinks his coffee black. 

He’d been informed by Edith that the previous appointment had suddenly been cancelled, but luckily Mr. Fell just so happened to be here right at that moment. 

“Welcome to Eden!” Raphael says. The blonde man in the room cringes a little, which is odd, but luckily odd things don’t bother him. “My name is Raphael Isaacson. Please, sit down.” He gestures at the chairs, and the man sits down. 

“Now then, Mister Fell, is it?” he asks, looking at the blonde man. Raphael didn’t often remember gay people exist - they didn’t bother him, he was just so occupied with himself he forgot about them - but with this man it was strangely unavoidable. Something about him just exudes an air of GAY! GAY! GAY! Still, as a businessman, he appreciates a man who puts effort into his appearance. He’s no stranger to the occasional manicure himself. 

“Ah, yes. Mister Fell,” the man says in a somewhat effeminate voice, while sitting ramrod straight in his chair. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Mister Fell! What can I do for you? Edith tells me you’re looking for funding for your business?” 

“Yes, that is correct.” Aziraphale sits back, crossing his legs. “I’m starting a, uh, bakery, you see. But it seems I underestimated how much it costs to bake bread, so now I would like some more money. Word in town has it you provide that. Is that true?” 

Raphael spreads his arms in excitement. This is going to be easy money for Eden, and that means easy money for Raphael. He’s had his eye on the latest Tesla model, and that was very quickly coming within reach now. 

“Why, you’ve come to the right place! Since you’re new to town, let me tell you a little about Eden and what we do first, Mister Fell.

“We here at Eden believe that the best way to support a community is to let the community decide what it needs. If the community decides it needs more small companies, then we help those small companies get a headstart. If the community decides it wants to be more eco-friendly, we help provide funds for things like solar panels and electric cars. We’re all about serving the people.

“To do this, we work with five core values. Those values are integrity, accountability, diligence, perseverance, and discipline. All our employees work from these core values to provide the best service possible to our customers. 

“But, we expect our clients to do the same. After all, if our core values don’t align, can we really properly support each other? We need our clients just as much as you need us, and for this partnership to provide maximum efficiency for all parties involved, we need to make sure all values are aligned. You still with us?” 

Aziraphale just nods, his face pinched as he presses his lips together. 

Raphael smiles, and continues. 

“Of course, to be able to support your business, we will need some things first. A full business proposal, an outline of your finances, your estimated profits after the first two years, signed agreements of risk acknowledgements, signed contracts, and so on. You wouldn’t happen to have a business proposal on you right now, do you?” 

Aziraphale does not, in fact, carry any papers at all on him right now. Nor does he know what a business proposal is supposed to look like. But something as small as that has never stopped him before. 

“Of course,” he therefore says as he pulls a business proposal out of his pocket that definitely didn’t exist a minute ago. 

“Good!” Raphael says as he takes the paper and starts skimming over it. “Now, of course this isn’t enough yet. We will need you and -” he skims over the paper again, “and Mister Crowley to both sign all agreements. Perhaps you could both stop by sometime? We can e-mail you all the requirements.” 

“Oh, we don’t own a computer,” Aziraphale says, shrugging. Raphael stares at him. Someone in this day and age, without a computer? He’d guessed this Mister Fell is a bit old-fashioned based on his clothing, but he didn’t think he’d actually live in history. 

“Alright,” Raphael says slowly. “Then I suppose we’ll send you all the papers through regular post. I’ll make sure Edith knows about this. For now though, I’d say we’re done!” 

Aziraphale sighs in relief. 

There’s a knock on the door then, followed by a young woman sticking her head through the door. 

“Pardon my intrusion, sirs. Mister Isaacson, Mister Durham would like a word with you when you’re done.” 

“Good thing then we just happen to be done already! Thank you, Miss Wilmore!” Raphael smiles, showing off his perfect pearly white teeth. Women usually love those. “We will contact you soon, Mr. Fell. In the meantime, I look forward to doing business with you!” 

They shake hands, and as Raphael leaves with his arm around miss Wilmore’s waist, he doesn’t notice Aziraphale standing in the hallway, looking at them. 

He also doesn’t notice Aziraphale’s smile when a mysterious wind gust suddenly blows open a door, into Raphael’s face. 

\----

If there’s anything Anathema learned from her brief relationship with Newt Pulsifer, it’s that when you go witch hunting, you start by reading the newspapers. Now, she might not be witch hunting, being a witch herself, and this case probably not involving any witchcraft, but there was a mystery here and she needed information. 

Therefore, the first stop for Anathema today is the library. 

Thankfully, it’s open. It’s a small library with irregular opening hours, which is definitely going to be a hassle later, but for now luckily she can sit down for a couple of hours. She nods at the other woman at the table, who looks like she’s been there a while and could use some caffeine, and starts to focus on the newspapers. 

Several hours later, she realizes several things: 

  * These small-town newspapers seem to be made up of about 85% advertisements
  * A company called Eden has possibly the worst slogan she’s ever seen (“We’ll help you get out of the garden and into the world!”)
  * She really could use some coffee and maybe some food
  * The other woman at the table really, really could use some coffee

But most importantly: 

  * There’s an almost suspicious amount of small local businesses that are surviving on loans from Eden

Anathema puts away the newspapers, and decides that checking out that cheese shop Aziraphale mentioned might not be such a bad idea right now. 

\---

The French cheese shop looks old, cute, and almost like it was made for tourist photos. Its window sills are filled with all kinds of cheeses, mostly imported from France, although she sees some local cheeses too. She can’t help but wrinkle her nose at the sight. As a longtime vegan, she has no interest in actually eating any of the cheese. But this shop was mentioned in a newspaper as one of the many shops in town that had almost gone bankrupt before Eden had come sweeping in. 

“Hi, excuse me, my name is Ana Device. Are you the owner of this shop?” she says, shaking the hand of the man behind the counter. 

“Yes, I am. What can I help you with, ma’am?” 

“I’m a reporter for CNN, and I’m writing an article on the most beautiful English towns worth visiting for Americans. Can you tell me a bit about your store and why people should come to Arundel?” 

The man goes through what is really a very standard spiel about the beautiful English architecture, the friendliness of the people, and of course the castle. Anathema is only half-listening while she takes some notes. 

“U-huh. Sounds good! I hope I’m not being too forward though with my next question.” 

“Oh, no go ahead!”

“It’s just, I noticed the streets are very calm and there’s not a lot of people in the shops. Is it hard to keep things running?” 

"Well,” the man scratches the back of his head as he thinks. “We could definitely use some more tourists, yes. I won’t deny it’s been hard to keep things running. But that’s a problem everywhere, isn’t it?” 

“Hm-mh,” she murmurs as she pretends to scribble down even more notes. “Just out of curiosity, and feel free not to answer if this is an uncomfortable topic, but how did your shop survive?” 

The man looks conflicted for a moment. Then, his mood suddenly swings. 

“Ma’am, look. Are you going to buy something or what? Otherwise, I really have other things to do, a business to run and all that.” 

She really wasn’t getting anywhere with conversations today, was she. 

Anathema sighs, and puts away the notebook. 

\--- 

She next finds herself at a coffee shop nearby. It’s small and quaint, but it has that same comforting coffee smell that immediately reminds her of her favourite shop back in the States. The chairs mostly match, but they are definitely all old. There’s a small bookcase against one of the walls, with a hand-painted sign that says ‘free book exchange!!’ in colourful, uneven letters. 

She exhales in relief at the sense of comfort, and puts down the small bag with cheese for Aziraphale on the table before sitting down. 

She’s still looking at the menu when someone sits down across from her. 

“Hello,” says the woman from the library, smiling at Anathema, who blinks in surprise. It happens surprisingly often that random strangers will just talk to her, but she never quite got used to it. Apparently she has ‘one of those faces’ that makes people comfortable with walking up to her. 

“Uh, hi?” Anathema says eloquently. 

“You’re new in town, aren’t you?” the woman says. Anathema looks at her properly now. She’s—well, she’s beautiful. Anathema wouldn’t know how else to put it. 

She’s wearing a gray tartan pencil skirt with matching jacket, with a ruffled blouse underneath tied at her neck with a black bow. Her wavy brown hair reaches just over her shoulders, and she has blue eyes that Anathema thinks she could drown in. Although right now they are looking kindly at Anathema in expectation of her answer. 

“I - yes. I am new in town.” Anathema pushes up her glasses, feeling strangely nervous all of a sudden. “Just visiting some friends, actually.” 

The woman rests her chin on her hands. “Let me buy you a drink,” she says. Anathema is about to protest when she adds: “to welcome you to town. It wouldn’t do to let such a lovely visitor sit here all by herself, now would it?” She winks before turning to call the waitress over. 

“My name is Jacquelyn, by the way,” she says, extending a hand to Anathema as the waitress walks their way. 

“Anathema,” Anathema says, taking Jacquelyn’s hand. 

Anathema has always believed you can tell a lot about a person just by their hands. There’s the obvious: calloused skin usually means someone does a labor job, soft hands mean office job. Dirty nails mean hard job, or someone who cares less about what others think. Well-manicured, clean hands means it’s someone who cares a lot about how they present themselves, and usually also what others think. 

Then there’s the lines on their hands. She never learned the art of palm reading herself, but she had her palm read in Mexico City once. Apparently, she will meet the love of her life some day. Their relationship will have a rocky start, but after that be solid for the rest of their lives. Since this didn’t match with Agnes Nutter’s prediction, she decided at the time to ignore the palm reader. 

Another thing a lot of people don’t notice is the length of fingers. She read a Huffpost article once explaining that the length of your ring finger and index finger compared to each other and your middle finger can tell you about your personality. This one sounded like a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to her, but it was nonetheless an entertaining 5 minutes during a long procrastination session when she should have been practicing with her divining rod. 

Jacquelyn’s hand is very soft and elegant, her nails polished a deep red with precision, which, combined with her outfit, probably means she does some kind of office job. But Anathema can feel strength beneath all that, a kind of strength she usually feels in people who carry a lot of heavy things, which is strange. It could be anything though - maybe she worked out a lot, or did bouldering every other day. Maybe she had a secret life next to her office job, perhaps as a construction worker - although that wouldn’t explain the nails. 

Most importantly, Anathema notes, there’s a quick jolt when they touch, like an electric shock. It rushes through her body, leaving butterflies in her stomach in its wake. She’s never felt anything like it, but before she has time to think more about what it could mean, the waitress arrives and they let go, although to Anathema it feels like they held hands for an eternity. 

They end up chatting over coffee for over an hour, until Jacquelyn suddenly looks at her watch and jumps up. 

“I’m sorry, I have to go. Got to head back to work,” she says as she puts a coat on over her work jacket. “Welcome to Arundel, Miss Anathema. I do hope you’ll stay a while.” 

She smiles at Anathema before leaving. Anathema decides this is her cue to go back to the cottage, too, and see what Crowley and Aziraphale have been up to. 

The cashier looks confused for a moment when Anathema tries to pay for the drinks. 

“Miss, it’s already been paid for. Oh!” she says, grabbing a small paper note from somewhere behind the register. “I was asked to give this to you,” she says as she hands the yellow note over to Anathema. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” 

“No, thank you. The coffee was lovely. I’ll definitely come back soon,” Anathema says, slightly distracted by the note. 

The paper is mostly empty, save for a phone number and one line written in cursive: 

_ Let’s have lunch tomorrow _

\---

That evening, in a lovely quaint-yet-very-fancy restaurant on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the rough oceans, the mayor of Brighton, Walter Whitfield, and his wife are having a romantic candlelight dinner. 

“Waiter! Your best non-alcoholic beer, please!” Whitfield exclaims loudly. The waiter - new, and not quite as smooth and sophisticated yet as the others - takes a small bow and smiles at Whitfield, before turning around and whispering something to another waiter. 

Vera glances wistfully at her glass of water. “Oh Walter. Just a few more months and we can drink alcohol again.” Whitfield takes his wife’s hand over the table. 

“I know honey. And from what I hear about parenting, we’ll need it,” he says, glowing with excitement. 

Dinner arrives. Braised cod, grilled aubergine, roast potatoes, the table quickly filled with all manner of delicious foods. You could say it’s the kind of dinner angels dream of. 

Walter and Vera were having a lovely evening. To anyone watching, they would have looked happy, content, excited about becoming parents and enjoying their last months without children. 

Near the end of dinner, Vera notices her husband is looking sweaty and a bit pale. 

“Darling, are you alright?” she asks, voice full of concern and love. 

Walter wipes softly at his face with a napkin. “Yes, I’m just… I think I’ll just go outside for a minute, get some fresh air.” 

He stands up, stumbling slightly. “I’ll be right back, don’t worry.” He kisses his wife’s forehead, as if he wants to kiss away her worries. 

He goes outside, and walks a little bit away from the restaurant. Standing at the edge of a cliff, he feels a wave of peace coming over, chasing away the dizziness and nausea he was feeling just moments earlier. He closes his eyes, and listens to the sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs below him. 

He doesn’t notice the footsteps coming up behind him until it’s too late, and after that, the drugs have kicked in enough that he doesn’t notice he’s falling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For added context, read [this](https://lesbianomens.tumblr.com/post/185389297894/wait-do-people-know-about-aziraphale-and).


	3. Genesis 2:4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is the story of the heavens and the earth at their creation. When the LORD God made the earth and the heavens—_

Aziraphale and Crowley never really intended to move to their shared cottage in the South Downs. Like so many things in their long, immortal lives, it just kind of happened without much thought or agency on their part. 

After the Apocalypse That Wasn’t, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves essentially unemployed. They still had all their skills, if you could call them that, but no reason to use them other than that old habits die hard. They might have been on their own side now, but exactly what that entailed, they didn’t quite know yet. 

So Aziraphale sat down in the bookshop, which remained closed for a while, and read books for as long as he pleased. Crowley also sat down in the bookshop, where he drank a lot of wine while pretending not to read (though he would never admit it, he agreed with Aziraphale that the Winnie the Pooh books were a true piece of art.) 

However, 6000 years of traveling all over the globe and hundreds of years spent in London working for their respective causes, would give anyone who suddenly found themselves without any goals an existential restlessness. Not to mention the emotional whiplash from working to cause Armageddon, working to stop Armageddon, then suddenly not working for anything at all. 

This led to one evening a year later where Crowley suddenly put down his wine glass with a loud thunk, and declared: 

“Angel, I’m bored.” 

And that was enough for Aziraphale, who was actually quite content and comfortable with the bookshop, to suggest they move out of London and ‘retire properly’. 

It was Crowley who had suggested moving to the south. 

“There’s a place there, Washington. I have some good memories of that place,” he had said over dinner one day. Dinner that day was a poke bowl for Aziraphale (‘very disappointing, why don’t they just eat sushi’) and wine for Crowley. 

“Oh? Please, do tell,” Aziraphale had said, pouring some more soy sauce over his bowl. 

“Remember that time I went to the South Downs for our Agreement?” Aziraphale nodded. 

“Well, I finished early for the day and was about to head out to a pub, when I noticed some teenagers running circles around a ring of trees on top of a hill. You know humans and their circles, always think it’s something occult.” 

“Well it often is, isn’t it?” 

Crowley ignored him. “I figured I’d do your part of the Agreement as well, and as it was winter and very cold, I decided to offer them some soup.” 

“How nice of you!” 

“See, that’s what I thought! But they thought I was the devil, and that I wanted their souls in exchange for the soup.” 

Aziraphale frowned, his fork pausing midway. “But that doesn’t even make sense.” 

“I know! Unfortunately they ran off before I could explain anything, and the rumour still exists.” Despite acting affronted, Aziraphale definitely noticed the smirk on Crowley’s face. 

Still, Aziraphale liked the idea of a small cottage, maybe even a new bookshop in a small, deserted town with very little chance of actual customers coming in. Crowley liked the idea of less politically-liberal inclined but more religious towns full of people to mess with, even though he didn’t have to tempt anyone anymore. 

In the end, they decided to move to a cottage just outside of Arundel. It was the perfect place, with plenty to offer both Aziraphale and Crowley: close (but not too close) to bigger places like Brighton and Washington, a beautiful view over the valley, picturesque streets with traditional houses, a garden surrounded by castle walls that reminded them of different times.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed one evening while they were looking at maps. “And Devil’s Dyke is nearby! I hear there are some wonderful attractions there. Bandstands, a fairground, even a camera obscura!” 

Crowley had looked at him quizzically. “Aziraphale. Devil’s Dyke? Really? That place was popular over 120 years ago. They’re all gone now. I should know, I was at the rave party there a couple of years ago.” 

Soon after they had moved to the South Downs, Aziraphale had found a stack of books while unpacking that he’d never got round to reading when they were published - a series of detective novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. These gave him the idea of starting a detective agency, too. This was actually something Crowley pointedly did not agree with but he was given very little choice in the matter. 

“This is going to be just like your magic tricks all over again, I just know it,” he complained.

“Oh shush, this is going to be so much better,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well that can’t be that hard.” 

Aziraphale ignored him, instead pulling a magnifying glass out of his pocket. 

“Look! I’m all prepared! And what’s that I see?” He holds the glass close to Crowley’s face. 

“Why, it’s a grumpy old demon! What a discovery!” 

“I’ll show you grumpy,'' grumbled Crowley, while doing absolutely nothing to stop Aziraphale.

“Anyway, we did solve the mystery of the missing antichrist.” 

“A mystery that took us eleven years to solve, and besides, we were the ones to lose him in the first place.” 

“We did not lose him, you did.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. They’d been through this. Very, very often. “The child was lost, we were both involved in that. And anyway it doesn’t matter. This detective agency is a terrible idea. Just because you still dress like the late 1800s doesn’t mean you’re Sherlock Holmes.” 

Aziraphale just huffed at that. Soon, there was an ad in the local newspaper: 

_ The Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley Detective Agency, For All Your Detective-y Needs. Opening hours vary, please leave a voicemail or leave us a note, preferably handwritten, and wax sealed for privacy law reasons. Or just knock on our door and see if we’re there.  _

_ Ethereal or occult folk, witchfinders, and humans who own small, yappy dogs need not apply.  _

\---

The first case they solved was a simple one. 

A client had come in, asking them to please find who kept glueing coins to the sidewalk. This was simple to solve as it was Crowley who had still not managed to get rid of this bad habit. 

The problem was, he actually thoroughly enjoyed sitting in a cafe with Aziraphale, alternating between watching people struggle with the coins and watching Aziraphale enjoy his food. It took one (very angry) glance from Aziraphale for him to stop. 

They told their client they had found the culprit and had given them a stern talking to, and that was that. 

Crowley was much more alright with this than he’d thought. He already knew for several millennia that he enjoys just spending time with Aziraphale, but right now he’s still getting used to not having to do anything demonic anymore. It meant a lot of pent-up energy he didn’t know where to put, which in turn meant a lot of complaining to Aziraphale. Or at least, even more than he already did. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale picked up on this quickly enough, and after that new plants started appearing in the cottage at random intervals, for Crowley to put his energy into. 

\---

Their second case had proven slightly more complicated, but really only slightly. A woman had come in, looking almost regal, her grey hair tied up in a complicated-looking knot at the nape of her neck, showing off her expensive earrings and long, elegant neck. 

She was here with her husband on their twice-annual holiday, but her husband kept leaving her alone. She was absolutely sure he was cheating on her, and wanted them to confirm it and find out who he was cheating with. 

The “who” part was easy. Crowley had gone to a restaurant by himself a month earlier - Aziraphale claimed to have too many standards for this restaurant, but Crowley had seen him eyeing the Georgette Heyer novel he’d just dug up from one of the last boxes. 

He’d had some fun with the waiters, making them have a very frustrating evening by making the front of house computers crash and moving all furniture two inches to the left. This had led to some bumbling around, a drink or two was spilled in someone’s lap, someone else’s food was undercooked. 

To be fair, that one didn’t happen because of Crowley but he was happy to take credit for it anyway. 

The woman who was now their client had been there that evening. Crowley had seen her get angry at their waiter for tripping over a bunched up edge of decorative carpet and spilling her soup all over the floor. While she was off shouting at the poor hosts, her husband was helping out the busser who was cleaning up the mess. 

This busser was a single mother in her thirties who had recently divorced her useless husband and who was enjoying her newfound life much less than she anticipated. She and the husband had looked at each other, blushed, and in a rare moment of boldness fired by the frustrations of the evening after a rough week, she had slipped her phone number to him. 

The “how to confirm” took a little bit of sleuthing. And by sleuthing, Aziraphale actually meant:

“Crowley, we’re following the husband in the Bentley -”

“MY Bentley.”

“-yes, like I said, the Bentley, and then we will ring the door of wherever they are staying, you take a picture when they open the door, and we’re done!” 

Crowley thought this was a terribly bad idea and said as much. So they followed the husband in the Bentley, Crowley readied the camera on his phone, and they rang the doorbell. 

No one opened the door. 

No problem for two beings who can perform miracles. There was a short discussion on the ethics of opening doors to people’s houses when the owners clearly didn’t want them to be opened, but after Aziraphale put on his best Sad Face, Crowley relented and snapped the door open anyway. 

They walked in and managed to get both an eyeful and plenty of photos of exactly what the wife had suspected before being chased out by the husband as the busser girl called the police. 

The wife had burst into tears when she saw the pictures, before getting irrationally angry at Crowley and Aziraphale. 

After that case, a new ad appeared in the local newspaper: 

_ The Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley Detective Agency, For All Your Detective-y Needs. Opening hours vary, please leave a voicemail or leave us a note, preferably handwritten, and wax sealed for privacy law reasons. Or just knock on our door and see if we’re there.  _

_ Ethereal or occult folk, witchfinders, and humans who own small, yappy dogs need not apply.  _

_ We do NOT take cases about cheating spouses. Just leave them and live your best life.  _

\---

By the third case, they were really getting the hang of this detective thing (or so they like to tell themselves over glasses of wine in front of the fireplace.) 

Crowley had been the one to hear the soft knocks on the door. There was a girl looking down at the floor when he opened it. She was young, probably not even ten yet. Her knuckles had gone white from holding the straps of her too-big backpack too tightly.

“Hello there,” Crowley said in a soft voice. The girl looked up with big eyes that seemed to be on the verge of tears. 

“Excuse me mister, are you a detective?” she said. 

“I suppose I am. Do you need a detective?” 

“I- I think so,” her voice broke a little, and Crowley’s heart breaks right along with it. 

“Why don’t you come in, we’ll get you some hot chocolate and you can tell us what’s wrong. Does that sound good?” 

She shuffled her feet a bit. “Mother says I’m not supposed to go inside strangers’ houses.” 

“Well, then how about we sit right outside here? The weather’s nice, and that way you won’t have to come in and you won’t have to lie to your mum. Look,” he said as some chairs, a table and a colourful parasol at the front of the path suddenly came into existence. “We can sit right there where everyone can see us and everyone can see you’re alright.” 

She nodded, and moved to sit on the pink chair as Crowley went inside to fetch Aziraphale and the drinks. 

“Alright,” Crowley said as they all sat down. “My name is Crowley and this is my friend Aziraphale, but you may call him Azi.” Crowley ignored Aziraphale’s mildly offended sputtering. “What’s your name?” 

“I am Sophie.” 

“Hello, Sophie,” Aziraphale said in his softest voice. 

Crowley appreciated the effort - Aziraphale might be a literal angel, but Crowley was well aware that apparently that didn’t necessarily mean he had to be  _ fond _ of children. It was always Crowley who had cared more for them, and the one more willing to defy direct orders for the sake of helping children. In a different time he would’ve denied it, but things have changed. 

“How can we help you, Sophie?” Aziraphale asked, pulling Crowley from his thoughts. 

“Um, well, you are detectives, right?” 

“We are! Look, I even have a magnifying glass like all proper detectives do,” Aziraphale said as he pulled his magnifying glass from his pocket and pretended to peer into Sophie’s eye, making her giggle. 

“So, you see, I saw something at school and I don’t know if it’s wrong but my mum never has time to listen to me and my teachers always say I ask too many questions and I didn’t know who else to ask.” 

“Oh, well, we have all the time in the world for you, my dear. You can ask all the questions you want,” Aziraphale said. 

“Well, you see, I was cleaning out the frog’s tank after school, because it was my turn on the roster, but then some of the boys in my class pushed over the box I put the frog in and it jumped away. So I wanted to catch it but it jumped into the hallway. And I followed it, but then I heard some of the teachers. And I think they were doing something naughty, but I’m not sure because they weren’t laughing. So I asked them, and they got really angry at me and said I couldn’t tell anyone but that means they were doing some bad, right?” 

Crowley could find a lot of flaws in humans. It’s in his nature, after all. But if there was one flaw he could get rid of, it was humans’ tendency to take their own embarrassment out on innocent bystanders. It was not his and Aziraphale’s fault that the husband in the earlier case was cheating, yet the wife had gotten angry at them. It was not this child’s fault that she saw something two grown adults should have taken home, yet they had gotten angry at her. 

All Sophie had done - and all Crowley had done, back before he’d Fallen - was ask questions. Was that really so wrong? 

And just like that, something snapped in him. He was done with being punished for who he was, and he was done with seeing others being punished for asking questions. 

He stood up. 

“What are the names of these teachers?” 

“Miss Adams and Mister Johnson.” 

“Thank you, Sophie,” Crowley says, crouching down so he can look Sophie in her eyes. “Thank you for telling us. You did nothing wrong. Remember that. Now, why don’t you go home?” 

He stands up straight, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure your mother is waiting for you. Oh!” He suddenly adds. “You’re always welcome to drop by, if you have any questions about anything or you just want a nice cup of hot chocolate. Okay?” 

She smiles. It’s a watery, wobbly smile surrounded by rings of chocolate around her mouth, but it’s a smile nonetheless. 

Crowley conjures up a soft tissue and wipes away the chocolate before seeing Sophie off. 

The moment she’s around the corner, he sets off on a brisk pace towards the Bentley.

“Angel, get in the car. We’re going to this school.” 

“You don’t think these teachers are still there, do you?” Aziraphale puffs as he tries to keep up with Crowley’s long strides. 

“Oh, they will be,” Crowley smirks. “Considering they just got a phone call from their boss telling them there’s an emergency meeting and they need to come back immediately.”

It takes a couple of days for Sophie to show up again, but when she does she is nothing like the shy, teary-eyed girl they saw the first time. She’s smiling as he bounces excitedly on her heels. 

“Well hello there!” Crowley says, opening the door wider for her to go inside. 

“Hello Mister Crowley, hello Mister Azi,” Sophie says as she skips past the doorway. She waves at Aziraphale when she comes into the living room, who waves back before sending a questioning look Crowley’s way, who in turn just smiles. 

“So how is school, Sophie?” Aziraphale asks as he takes off his reading glasses. 

“Very good, thank you. The teachers said I can ask as much as I want now! And they’re much nicer to me! Oohh, what kind of plant is this?” she says, picking up a small succulent that’s currently sprouting more flowers than any of its kind have ever done before.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, who is looking at Sophie with a soft, fond look on his face. He can’t hide these things from Aziraphale, not even with his sunglasses, try as he might. 

\---

The fourth case they solve involves no clients and no proper investigating. 

It starts (and ends) one evening at the cottage. Crowley and Aziraphale are having a cozy night in, which for them includes a lot of wine and a lot of waving hands around while drunkenly trying to make points about whatever discussion they’re trying to have while stumbling over their words. 

Aziraphale is trying to explain to Crowley the merits of adding extra wasabi to sushi when Aziraphale suddenly feels his chest light up with such a big wave of love washing over him he can’t help but be taken aback and clutch his chest. This has been happening with increasing frequency lately, and so far Aziraphale has been unsuccessful in pinpointing the source. 

Back in London he’d always just assumed someone feeling love very strongly just happened to be walking past the bookshop, which he had supposed would happen quite frequently in a busy area like Soho. But that excuse doesn’t work anymore when you live just outside of a small village in the South Downs.

That’s when he looks at Crowley, who is sitting on the armrest of the couch. His sunglasses are lying somewhere on the table, hidden between bottles of wine and stacks of books and papers. This means Aziraphale can see Crowley’s snake eyes, staring at him unblinkingly. The expression on Crowley’s face is a mixture of worry, curiosity and - 

Oh. 

Well. That explains a lot.

“Angel, are you alright?” Crowley interrupts his thoughts. Aziraphale can’t help but stare at him for a bit. 

Yes, he’s pretty sure he’s right. Oh, but then that means, 

“My dear, how long?” he asks. 

Crowley’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “How long what?” 

“How long have you loved me?”

This time Crowley’s eyes go big in surprise before he starts to sputter. 

“Well, I - I mean, that’s - wait, I - what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Aziraphale sighs, stands up and walks towards Crowley. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t catch up earlier,” he cradles Crowley’s cheek. “You always went so fast. But I’m here now. Thank you for waiting for me.” 

He leans in, and kisses Crowley.

“Isn’t this a sin? Consorting with the enemy, or something?” Crowley whispers against Aziraphale’s lips. He can feel those lips smiling against his own. 

“Oh, my dear. How could something as beautiful as love ever be a sin.” 


	4. Parables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”_

“MAYOR OF BRIGHTON COMMITS SUICIDE” the message on the TV screen reads. The camera zooms in on a serious looking man in a police uniform, surrounded by cameras and microphones. 

“We regret to confirm that mayor Whitfield of Brighton passed away last night. Unfortunately,” he stops for a moment to take a deep breath. “We also have to confirm it was suicide. We have no reason to suspect foul play. The family has been informed, and ask the press to be respectful in this time of pain and grief. That is all, we will not be answering questions right now.”

“Well that’s interesting,” Crowley remarks softly after the screen cuts back to the newsroom. Aziraphale wonders for a moment if Crowley’s talking to him or only to himself. 

“That’s very quick of them to confirm it’s suicide though,” Anathema says. 

“Is it?” Aziraphale asks. “I always thought people would just know how someone died.” 

“No, that’s just beings like you. Wait,” Anathema frowns. “If you thought people always just knew, then why do you think we have detectives and police forces?” 

Aziraphale fidgets a little before shrugging. “I just thought they were there for fun.”

“Fun?” Crowley and Anathema say in unison. 

"Anyway,” Anathema continues. “Can’t one of you just tell how the mayor really died?” 

“I haven’t exactly been part of the demonic watercooler gossip circle lately,” Crowley says. 

“Not my department,” Aziraphale shrugs. 

Anathema’s phone pings with a new message, and she blushes and smiles as she reads it before suddenly standing up. “I have to go out for a bit. See you both later! Let’s all have dinner together!” 

Aziraphale and Crowley stare after her as she barges out, turning to each other as the door bangs shut. Crowley raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale’s soft smile. 

“What?” 

“My dear. She’s in love.” 

\---

Crowley is about to go to the kitchen to make hot chocolate for both of them when there’s a flutter at the door, followed by the sound of an envelope falling on the doormat. He snakes over, reads it, and starts smirking. 

“Oh, things just got so much more interesting. Hey angel, look at this.” 

Aziraphale looks up from his book at this, curiosity written all over his face. 

“What is it, dear?” 

Crowley waves the letter around when he walks back into the living room. “We just got a warning to stay away from this case. Apparently,” he says gleefully, “we’re in danger.” 

Aziraphale frowns. “What does it say?” 

Crowley clears his throat dramatically before he starts to read: 

_ You have to stop your investigation. You are both in grave danger. Eden has killed before, and they will again. They know you’re investigating, and that it will lead to them.  _

Aziraphale tuts. “What, no salutations or nice closing sentence? People these days, they have no manners. Well it wouldn’t do for us to get discorporated. The paperwork would be dreadful. Besides, I’ve been discorporated once and didn’t enjoy that at all,” Aziraphale shivers at the memory. “I think we should take this seriously, Crowley. Does it say who it’s from?” 

“Nope! Anonymous letter, very threatening, very scary. I like it.” 

Just then there’s a knock on the door. They look at each other, and Aziraphale shrugs. Crowley, still smirking, saunters back to the door and opens it to see the same police officer from the TV earlier standing in front of him. 

“Well hello, officer,” Crowley says. 

“Is this the Mister Fell and Mister Crowley detective agency?” 

“Yes, I’m Crowley,” he drawls, extending a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m chief constable Spalding, and we need to talk.” He ignores Crowley’s hand. 

Crowley’s smirk deepens. “Of course, officer. Come in, come in, would you like something to drink?” 

“It’s chief, not officer,” the chief constable says. 

“Sure, sure, of course,  _ chief, _ ” Crowley says as he leads the way back to the living room. “Aziraphale! We have a guest!” 

Aziraphale’s face doesn’t betray anything as chief Spalding walks in slowly, looking around as he takes in the clutter of the cottage. 

“Lovely place you’ve got here, lads. Live here together, do you?” Aziraphale has heard that tone before. He’s never appreciated it. You don’t live in Soho for decades without knowing exactly what that tone means when a police officer says it. 

Aziraphale has helped hide a lot of people who came into contact with police just like this man right here. 

Spalding knocks a stack of books off a chair and puts his shoe on the edge of it. 

“Alright, let’s go straight to business,” he starts, but then he gets interrupted by Crowley. 

“Yes, yes, we know. You’re here to threaten us. Do you take sugar or milk in your coffee?” 

Spalding blinks at him for just a second. “I’m not staying long enough for coffee, boys.” 

Crowley stares back at Spalding for a moment, then shrugs and walks over to Aziraphale, who is still standing in the middle of the room. “Alright then. Suit yourself. How can we help you today, mister officer?” 

“It’s chief. Let me tell you a story. A parable, so to speak.” 

“Oooh, a parable! I remember Jesus was quite good at telling those,” Aziraphale says, his eyes sparkling with mischief. They sit down on the couch, suddenly passing back and forth a bowl of freshly made popcorn. 

“I’m sure you know this one, but let me just tell it to you again. Once upon a time, there was a garden. In this garden, God had created the first two humans, called Adam and Eve.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to speak up, but Crowley shushed him before he could start. 

“Adam and Eve were well taken care of in the garden. God had provided everything they ever needed, under only condition: to never eat from the apple tree. Then one day, a serpent came in, and tempted Eve to eat from the apple tree. Under his influence, she did. She then gave Adam some apples, too. They went against God’s orders, even though God had done everything to keep them comfortable in Eden. 

“Here in the South Downs, we’re trying to start a new Eden. We’re helping the local people be comfortable, to give them everything they need. And you two? You’re the serpent. You’re tempting them away from God’s word.” 

Crowley started sniggering. “I’m sure I’m the only serpent here, actually,” he says, laughing around another mouthful of popcorn. 

“For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to threaten you!” Spalding roars. 

“Yes, and you’re doing a terrible job of it,” Crowley drawls. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale says, raising a finger. “I don’t think Jesus Christ was very fond of threatening people.” 

“Lovely lad, that. Meant very well,” Crowley adds as Aziraphale nods solemnly. 

“Ooh, is it my turn now to tell a story?” Aziraphale claps his hands in excitement, bouncing in his seat like a puppy who’s just heard the word ‘walk’. “By the way, I’m not sure if you know what a parable actually is. But that’s alright, really. I forgive you.” 

His voice drops suddenly as he leans forward, clasping his hands together. Crowley sits back, smirking, the bowl of popcorn replaced by a glass of wine that looked so deeply red it could’ve easily been mistaken for blood. 

“Sit down, chief Spalding. Let me tell you a story about the angel and the demon who went against all of heaven’s angels and all of hell’s demons and still couldn’t be stopped.” 

His eyes start glowing a little as shadows suddenly appear behind him and Crowley that look suspiciously like wings. 

A couple of minutes later, Sophie is about to ring the doorbell when the front door to the cottage suddenly flies open and the chief of the local police force comes storming out, looking as if he just had the fear of God put into him. There’s a strange light coming from the living room. 

The light disappears just when Crowley and Aziraphale come at the door. They smile and wave at the police officer, who is currently trying very hard to get his car started. He doesn’t know yet that it doesn’t work because the car doesn’t have an engine anymore, but for now he looks back at the cottage and at Aziraphale, looking as angelic as ever, with Crowley’s arm around his shoulder. 

“Sophie! Come on in, love. How was school today?” Aziraphale says, turning to Sophie as Police Chief Spalding runs away as fast as he can. 

“Why was the police at your house?” Sophie asks. 

“Oh, he just wanted to threaten us, because he thinks we’re asking too many questions. And you know how we feel about people like that,” Aziraphale says, bopping Sophie’s nose. 

Sophie smiles. She knows indeed. 

\---

“How did you first know you love Aziraphale?” Anathema asks over glasses of wine. Neither she nor Crowley care much about wine brands or production years; it’s much more Aziraphale's field of interest. But Aziraphale is upstairs, scribbling away at his case notes in a new room he has dubbed ‘the office’ (a name no one else uses). Crowley doesn’t expect him back downstairs for a while at least; once Aziraphale’s focused on something only a near Apocalypse can pull him out. So they just pulled out whatever bottle happened to be at the front of the case, looked at the label for approximately 2 seconds before shrugging and opening it. 

“What makes you think I love him?” Crowley says, blushing slightly, fingers brushing at invisible lint on his skirt. 

Anathema takes a moment to think about it. She’d thought it obvious, really. It’s in the way he looks at Aziraphale, as if he’s wandered through the desert and just found a well of fresh water. It’s in the way his eyes light up and his face relaxes when Aziraphale walks into the room, as if every moment without him Crowley struggles to breathe and Aziraphale is the oxygen he needed. It’s in the way he always orbits Aziraphale, his body always turning slightly towards him, as if he’s a planet and Aziraphale the sun he’s circling. 

It’s in the way he looks almost sad and lost when he’s alone, as if Aziraphale is his entire world and he needs him to survive. 

Crowley continues before Anathema can actually voice any of this, though. “I knew the moment I first talked to him and he said he’d given away the flaming sword God had given him, just to give humanity a fighting chance outside of Eden. He was so upset and ashamed when he said it, but I was astounded. That level of dedication to and love for humanity is rare, even among actual angels.” 

“That’s the thing about Aziraphale. He’s a bit of a bastard, he’s definitely a glutton, and he has this stubborn dedication to what he thinks are proper angelic ways of doing things, but really, everything he does is done from a place of love for humanity above anything else. And not just humanity, either. Right from the first moment, he showed that same love to me. There I was, a demon, slithered up from hell to chase humans out of their protected garden, and one of the first things he does is protect me from the rain without any questions. 

And you know what? Maybe that was my mistake. All I ever did was ask questions. It got me kicked out of heaven. But Aziraphale doesn’t ask, he just does what he thinks is right and that’s that. He’s a stubborn git who loves so fiercely he will do anything to help out those he loves, including going against what God has told him, and I guess that’s why I love him.” 

Anathema smiles. She didn’t even ask why he loves Aziraphale, but obviously Crowley loves to talk about him. She doesn’t think she’s heard Crowley talk this much—well, ever really.

“Anyway,” Crowley smirks, uncrossing his legs to put his high heels on the floor as he leans forward. “Does you asking me this happen to have anything to do with yourself? After all,” he pretends to casually inspect his nails. “I hear you’re in love.” 

Anathema startles. Was she that obvious too? She fidgets, unsure of where to start. 

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Crowley says, as if he had just read her mind. 

And so Anathema does. She talks of how she did love Newt, but felt stifled by Agnes Nutter’s predictions, having had her whole life dictated by them. She wanted to find out who  _ she _ was beneath all of that, learn to make her own decisions. 

So she broke up with Newt, packed her bags, closed the door to the cottage in Tadfield, and started traveling. She’d gone to see killer whales in the Norwegian fjords. She’d sunbathed on the beaches in Greece and climbed the stairs of the Colosseum in Rome. She had joined flamenco lessons in Madrid and volunteered at Shakespeare & Co in Paris. 

Then she heard from Adam that Crowley and Aziraphale had moved to a cottage together and started a detective agency, and decided it was time to visit her old friends. 

She talks about how she met Jacquelyn while investigating their case, and seeing her felt like nothing she’s ever felt before. She talks about the talks shared over steaming cups of coffee, about the time Anathema got caught in a sudden downpour and Jacquelyn was right there with an umbrella. About how she told Jacquelyn the same things about her history.

She doesn’t mention the kiss. 

She doesn’t have to. From the look on his face, Crowley knows enough. 

\---

Officer Curran is still new to the job, having only graduated from the police academy half a year ago. He had been so excited to immediately get started, just to find that being posted in a small town in the South Downs largely meant ticketing for illegal parking. 

So when he started noticing a pattern in his tickets, his bored mind immediately went into overdrive. 

To be fair, multiple tickets every week for illegal parking near a restaurant that always looked so empty it was a miracle it was still open, yet somehow seemed to book a business meeting after opening hours quite regularly, was a genuinely suspicious affair. 

He’d tried addressing it to his superior officer. It didn’t help - he’d just been told to stick to his duties and don’t ask any questions. 

So he’d discussed it with some fellow officers. Most of them either walked away or, strangely, gave him a look of pity and resignation. 

Getting very weary about the situation, he’d tried going higher up. There, he’d been very politely yet sternly advised to keep to his station and stop bothering them, couldn’t he see they’re busy. 

At home, he’d been working on a file, gathering information and working on a theory. He’d started pulling away from his girlfriend, who was growing increasingly concerned and had begged him to stop and let it rest, that wasn’t it enough he was doing his dream job? 

Then one evening, after a long shift of strolling aimlessly through empty streets, he comes back to the office to get changed and finds a piece of cake on the desk with his name on it. It had been someone’s birthday, and they kept this piece for him. He’s hungry and tired and cranky, so of course he eats it. 

He chats with some coworkers while he does so, complaining about how boring his shifts are lately and how he’s starting to dislike this job, as you do when you’re young and inexperienced and bored and frustrated. 

He goes home, and he notices his stomach starts to act up. Strange. Must be that kebab he got during break. He did, after all, wonder at potential health and safety violations when he saw the tomatoes floating in their own fluid. 

His girlfriend is asleep when he does it make home, and apparently doesn’t notice his noise as he struggles to open the front door. His stomach is cramping so bad he can barely keep standing. His arms start to twitch uncontrollably as he finally gets inside and lets the door fall shut. 

The next morning his girlfriend finds officer Curran on the floor of their bathroom, and screams. 

The police declare it a suicide by overdose. 


	5. Revelation 13:18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man “  
_

“Why don’t you bring that girl of yours over sometime?” Aziraphale says to Anathema out of nowhere, who promptly almost chokes on her wine. 

“Bring her...here?” Anathema says, looking around her at the stacks of books, the plants taking over the furniture, the papers strewn around, and the amount of clutter she had to move aside just so they were able to sit and have dinner together. Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t necessarily need dinner (not to mention they much preferred dining out when they did eat), and they definitely could have very easily helped with tidying up, but Anathema had insisted on eating together and taking care of everything, and Aziraphale thought it might be rude to stop her. 

Besides, he had been working on something Important with Crowley (specifically: finding out how exactly how good Crowley is with his snake tongue), so he appreciated Anathema taking the time to make some delicious food for them. 

“How about we go out for high tea together instead?” Anathema suggested. 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up immediately at the thought of all those different little cakes and sweets to try out. 

“That sounds like a splendid idea!” 

\---

The next day Anathema finds herself at a small table for four in the little coffee shop where she first met Jacquelyn. She’s next to Crowley, who is slouching in his chair with an arm slung over the back, and across from Aziraphale, who is sitting properly upright and looking very excited, though she’s not sure if he’s more excited about meeting Jacquelyn or at the prospect of cake (if she was completely honest with herself, she knew it was about the cake). They’ve already ordered the high tea set, and they’re just waiting now for Jacquelyn to arrive. 

Anathema can’t shake the feeling she’s introducing her girlfriend to her parents, even though Jacquelyn is not her girlfriend and Crowley and Aziraphale are most definitely not her parents. Still, it’s strange and interesting how people (and, she supposes, occult beings) can grow on you and become a kind of family to you. 

She supposes it’s similar to how protective she feels over Adam, as if she can somehow protect the Antichrist. 

There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and preventing the literal end of the world is one of them. 

“Oh, here she is!” Anathema says beaming, waving at someone to come over. The figure in the entrance waves back before hanging up her coat and walking over to their little table.

“You!” Aziraphale gasps the moment he recognizes it’s Jacquelyn, who in turn freezes in her spot when she sees Aziraphale. 

“Mister Fell?” she says in a pinched voice. 

“You!” He comes at her now with his finger pointed at her. “You’re the secretary! From Eden!”

Everyone turns to stare at Jacquelyn. 

“Well isn’t this a plot twist,” Crowley drawls. “Anathema, did you know this?” 

“I, no, I did not,” Anathema gawps at Jacquelyn. “And in fact, if I’d known, I would’ve gone about this differently.” The vitriol in her voice is undeniable. 

They all fall silent when the first of their tea and snacks arrives. 

“There you go, loves,” the waitress says, either not noticing or flat-out ignoring the awkward atmosphere at the table. As anyone who has ever worked in a public service job can attest, she’s probably seen worse. 

“Right,” Aziraphale says when she leaves. He claps his hands together in excitement as he looks over all the treats. “Tea, anyone?” 

Everyone just nods. Aziraphale starts pouring tea for everyone, pointedly ignoring Jacquelyn, who doesn’t say anything and just quietly sits, biting her lip as she stares at the table cloth. 

“Drink up, everyone. A little tea might be just what we need,” Aziraphale says as he starts loading his plate up with little cakes. 

“So, Jacquelyn,” Crowley says in his best angry-nanny-voice, leaning his head on his hand as he turns to her. “Care to explain?” 

“My name is Jacquelyn Wilmore. I work as a secretary for the CEO of Eden. I’ve been there for a couple of years now, though I can’t tell you what I did before that.” 

“Might I suggest you reconsider that,” Aziraphale says calmly as he stabs his fork into a suddenly very scared scone. 

“I - I’m sorry, I really can’t,” she turns to Anathema, pleading. “I know it’s much to ask, but I really must ask you to trust me. I can’t tell you much about this - yet. Give me a little while longer and I will explain everything, I promise.” 

“Anathema, dear,” Aziraphale says. “If you want, we can just freeze her and let her tell us everything we know.” 

Jacquelyn raises an eyebrow at him and scoffs. “You couldn’t.” 

“Oh, we most definitely can,” Crowley smirks. 

Anathema sighs. “No need, Aziraphale, but thank you. Maybe later. Jacquelyn, is there anything you can tell us now?” 

Jacquelyn seems to curl in on herself even more. “That kind of depends on what you already know. You’re working on a case against Eden, right? The disappearance of Jim Durham?” 

“Yes,” Anathema says, ignoring Aziraphale’s shocked look and sputtering. She may have forgotten to inform Aziraphale of just how much she actually knows of the case - or, for that matter,  _ who _ she got some of the information from. 

“We know Eden is an illegal loan shark company that also dabbles in embezzlement and bribery. We know they’ve funded half this town, made good profit off of them, and then threatened them into silence. We know Jim is the CEO’s son, and that he was about to go public with information about Eden that could really bring them down. We suspect they found out and that’s why he had to go into hiding, though we’re not sure about that part.”

“They also work together with the police, since they did come to threaten us,” Aziraphale shrugs while putting more cream on his scone. 

“Yes,” Crowley grins. “That was a fun day. Lovely officer, had so many fun stories to tell.” 

“Hmpf,” Aziraphale snorts. “He wasn’t even very good at threatening.” 

“Well yeah, of course, to us he wasn’t very good. But then we’ve quite literally threatened heaven and hell into leaving us alone, so really what could he even do to us.” 

“Let’s not get too carried away though, dear. And besides, there’s so much we still don’t know about this case.” Aziraphale takes a bite of his scone, that now has a pile of cream big enough that had it been anyone else, it would have toppled over long ago. But this cream knows better, and is currently clinging on as best as it can. 

“Like this knife,” Crowley says, taking out the knife that had pinned Jim’s note to the table from some mysterious place in his jacket. Let’s just assume it came from a regular pocket, despite there being very few signs of inside pockets. “We still don’t know whose this is, or how it came to be used by Jim.” 

“Um,” Jacquelyn slowly raises her hand. “Not to make matters even worse for myself, but. It’s mine.” 

Anathema groans as she rubs her hands over her face. 

“How. How on earth did your knife end up in Jim’s house. Can you please just start explaining everything.” She sounds as if she’s on the verge of crying. She probably is, to be fair. Crowley carefully puts a hand on her shoulder in sympathy. 

Jacquelyn looks torn, and unsure of what to do. The daggers Crowley is sending her aren’t helping, though thankfully they’re only figurative. The devil knows he could do it for real. 

She takes a deep breath, not looking at anyone. 

“Like I said, I can’t tell you everything yet. But I can tell you that, like I said, I’m the secretary for Eden’s CEO, Fernand Durham. You’re right about the bribery and embezzlement. But there’s more. It’s so, so much worse. Jim had to go into hiding because they were going to kill him. I overheard them talking about it in Durham’s office, so I tipped Jim off and gave him the knife, thinking it might help better than that dodgy cheap sword he had. I didn’t know he’d left it behind. I don’t know where he is, either. That’s all I can tell you, for now.” 

Everyone’s silent after that. It’s the kind of silence that, usually, could cut through your very being. And if they hadn’t been in a semi-busy cafe, it might have. This silence decided that making a small bubble around their table would be a much better idea. The sound of the rest of the cafe seemed to fade out as everyone was letting Jacquelyn’s words sink in. 

It is difficult for most people to find out someone they thought they knew turns out to be someone else entirely. For example, a wife might find out her husband is cheating on her with a young busser from a restaurant while you’re on holiday. That means he is not the loyal husband she once thought he was, which is hard to deal with. Or a child might find out her teachers are just regular adults like most people in the world, who make mistakes too instead of being all-knowing and friendly like they often pretend to be. 

Or an angel and a demon pretending to be godfathers to the antichrist find out this child is not, in fact, the antichrist and they have just wasted precious years and have no clue where the actual antichrist is. 

But to find out a girl you quite like might have actually not only been working on the same case you’ve been working on, but has an active inside role in how it’s playing out and is, effectively, almost like a spy, is something else entirely. 

“He didn’t just leave your knife behind,” Aziraphale says, finally breaking the silence. “He used it to stick a note to his table.” 

Jacquelyn looks up. “A note?” 

“Crowley, dear, do you have it with you?” 

Crowley sighs as he pulls a very wrinkly paper out of his jeans pocket. 

Anathema takes the paper with the note and starts reading it over carefully, ignoring Jacquelyn’s quietly pleading looks.

Then something in the note catches her eye. No, that can’t be right. 

“Hang on a sec,” she says, fumbling for her phone. Everyone sits in silence, awkwardly waiting for her to finish whatever it is she’s doing. Well, everyone except Aziraphale who is using this opportunity to enjoy some more of that truly excellent lemon cake. 

“Aha!” Anathema suddenly exclaims. “I knew it!” 

Aziraphale looks at her with his mouth full of cake. “Knew what, dear?” 

She turns the paper towards them, so they can all read it. 

“I’m actually surprised none of you picked up on this. Aren’t you supposed to know the Bible?” 

Aziraphale shrugs. “Not really. I was there, after all.” He says as he reaches for a deviled egg. 

“See this?” she points to the psalm in the letter. “It says ‘psalm 32:7-8’, right? But he got it wrong. The psalm he wrote here is actually Psalm 9:9-10. So I looked up what the 32:7-8 one is, and it’s this,” she grabs her phone and reads off the screen: 

_ You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance. _

“I don’t suppose he could’ve just misremembered it?” Aziraphale asks. 

“So he knows the psalm itself by heart but doesn’t remember the right number, while writing an incredibly important letter to someone who is supposed to be the love of his life? Sounds unlikely to me. Sounds like he put the wrong psalm number there on purpose.” Anathema glances at Jacquelyn, who seems to be lost in thought now. 

“But even if he did, what does it mean?” Aziraphale says. 

“Maybe we should call Agatha,” Crowley suggests. “She’s closest to him, she might know.” 

\---

Agatha turns out to be close by, so she decides to come over to their little tea party from hell. They all move their chairs closer to each other to fit a fifth one at the table, forcing Anathema and Jacquelyn close enough that their sleeves accidentally brush. 

Crowley slides the note over to Agatha, who looks at him questioningly. 

“Did you know he wrote the wrong psalm number on this note?” 

Agatha’s eyes go big in surprise. “That’s not like him, at all. He knows the Bible so well, I can’t imagine he’d write the wrong number down.” 

“See, that’s what we thought, too,” Anathema says. “Hi, by the way,” she extends a hand to Agatha. “I’m Anathema. I’ve been working on your case.” 

“I’m Agatha. Hang on, Anathema? That’s an...odd name, isn’t it.” 

Anathema waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s an old family name. Call me Anna if you forget it. Anyway, the psalm he switched numbers with says something about ‘you are my hiding place’. Does that ring any bells for you?” 

“Oh!” Agatha exclaims. “It does! Oh no, I can’t believe I missed that!” 

Suddenly she bursts into tears. Aziraphale puts his hand on hers. “It’s alright, love. Just tell us what it means.” 

“It means that I think I know where Jim is.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost at the end now! I hope you enjoyed all those cliffhangers, haha. 
> 
> Chapter 6 might take a while longer before it's posted though. It's partially written and mostly outlined, but apparently I burned myself out writing-wise during nanowrimo this year, and progress on all my fics has been either slow or nonexistent. I'm working on it though, and I really do hope it won't take *too* long. But please bear with me for now!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi to me on [Tumblr](https://throwing-roses-into-the-abyss.tumblr.com)
> 
> I'm really excited to finally start posting this! I've been working on this fic for months, and although I ran into some issues along the way, I think at the very least the first couple of chapters will be good enough to start posting now! I'll (probably, don't hold me to it) update every Tuesday!
> 
> Let me know what you think of it! :) 
> 
> Thank you so much to Moody, Daye and Bethan for cheering me on and helping me out!


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